Love and Other Champagne Problems

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I t’d been a long time since I’d had to attend a fundraiser at the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club, and I’d forgotten how hellish they were.

The corner I stood in was a comfortable distance from the hors d’oeuvres table while not being too close to the rest of the partygoers. The strict black-tie dress code ensured that everyone surrounding me dressed to impress, showcasing their expensive jewelry for the evening. Diamonds glittered on necks and wrists as each country club attendee attempted to make another jealous with their various karat sizes.

My, what a beautiful bracelet!

That necklace is to die for!

Let me get a closer look at those earrings!

Perhaps I should’ve made a drinking game of it all—with each empty, false compliment, I’d take a sip of my champagne. Not that I’d stopped sipping it anyway.

While I attended college in New York, it’d been easy to forget the suffocation that was the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club. It had been easy to let the posh high society of Addison disappear like morning dew in the back of my mind. Now, I felt sticky with it, covered in the inescapable condensation of condescension.

I’d forgotten how small these walls made me feel, like they could swallow me whole without flinching. And they would.

The corner I stood in was a vacant one. Tucked near the windows that overlooked the now dark golf course, it held nothing but shadows and a young woman dressed in a navy blue, custom-made Gilfman suit. No one wandered close, aside from the revolving waiter that kept me well-stocked with champagne flutes, but even he was faceless. Everyone was. They all flitted about like little butterflies, tittering on about meaningless drivel. I wanted nothing more than to clip their wings.

I tipped my head back and gazed at the chandelier, dozens of bulbs and crystals throwing light around the room in a haphazardly beautiful manner. It was a lovely thing, yet hardly anyone looked up. Its grandness seemed small from where I stood, but I knew it must truly be massive up close, blinding—I found myself wondering how much it weighed.

I pictured it breaking free from the ceiling and plummeting to the ground.

I pictured it crushing me.

Better yet, crushing every other damned soul in the ballroom. That also would’ve been acceptable.

I drained the last bit of the champagne, and my empty flute was swiftly taken by a shadow that stepped in front of me. The worst butterfly of them all: my mother.

“Margot Massey,” she hissed in a voice that had not even a drop of patience, though you’d never guess from how perfect her expression was. Charlotte Massey was a refined woman, not looking a day over forty-five, though she was pushing sixty. She’d nearly mastered the art of hiding her frustrations with me. “How many of these have you had?”

I tried to remember how many times the waiter had walked over. “Four? Five? It started blurring after three.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I’d like to think I’m the only sane one within a five-hundred-foot radius,” I returned evenly, straightening my cuff where it fell against my wrist. I hadn’t worn this suit in months, if not years; I’d left it here while I was away at college. It felt snugger than I remembered, almost hard to breathe. I debated on unfastening the single button closure on the jacket, but refused to fidget before the eyes of the masses.

My mother’s watery blue eyes flashed as she shook the empty champagne flute. “I know you haven’t been to one of these in a while, but let me provide the refresher—you aren’t to have more than one glass here.”

“Who made that rule? A twenty-two-year-old can’t have a bit of champagne?”

“Which waiter did you get your drinks from?”

I cast a glance about the room, searching the faces that all blended together in a shade of gray. Amid the glitz and glamor and gold, everything felt gray. “Why does it matter?”

The champagne had done practically nothing to dull my surroundings. I suspected it was non-alcoholic. Either that or my tolerance had built at an alarming rate.

“You two hiding in the corner?” A woman in a lowcut black dress sauntered up to us, her auburn hair in loose ringlets around her face. Ms. Allyson Jennings—mid-fifties, never married, but had a ball “mingling” with the men of the club who were. Her mauve shade of lipstick smeared onto the skin above her mouth. She brought two women at her heel, but I didn’t look closely enough at them to place their faces. “I know Margot’s an antisocial fly on the wall, but it isn’t like you to be hiding, Charlotte. Did her tendencies rub off on you in New York?”

When I’d left for college, instead of letting me go on my own to spread my wings, my mother had followed me. Granted, the trip was only an hour flight from Addison, so it was easy on her to keep her leash on me tight. If it’d been any further, surely she would’ve hired someone to follow me around like a shadow. But in her absence, the country clubgoers had seemingly allowed people to forget her level on the propriety tier. She’d been at the top before New York, but ever since we returned a week ago, it was like she struggled to find her footing.

It was a little satisfying, watching someone other than me struggle.

“I was only catching my breath,” my mother replied. She laughed a little, a tittering sound that was far too similar to the rest of the room. It was as if everyone had one laugh soundtrack, and they each took turns playing it. “Just as you were doing when you stepped out into the hall, Allyson.”

Ms. Jennings flashed my mother a shark-like smile.

“This event is so lovely, as usual,” one of the women gushed to my mother. She had a champagne flute of her own in her hand, gesturing a little too carelessly with it. “It’s such a good cause, fundraising for missing children.”

The third woman batted her arm. “This one’s for saving the bees.”

“Oh, yes, yes! Even better!”

My gaze flicked back up to the chandelier, as if my will alone could cause it to fall.

“I was just telling Henry about the bees. He’s been killing them, but I say, ‘what about the honey, honey?’”

Everyone gave a giggling laugh. Except me.

“Oh, Margot.” Ms. Jennings made a tsking sound as she looked me up and down—more specifically, looked my designer suit up and down—the disdain in her eyes clear. “Let me take you shopping, dear. We’ll find you a dress you feel pretty in.”

“Doubtful.”

“Wouldn’t you like to feel feminine?”

I fought the urge to tug on my sleeve again. Though it might’ve been my favorite jacquard fabric, the navy material light as it draped over my figure, it would not do to fidget like a grade schooler in it. I made a mental note to throw the jacket out the second I got back to my room. “I feel feminine.”

Ms. Jennings scrunched her nose. “How? You’re wearing men’s clothing .”

No man would be caught dead in any of the suits I wore, with the waist narrowly tailored and the pantlegs tapered to accentuate the curve of my thighs. The way my lace dress shirt stretched to emphasize my chest had been fit for my figure, something a suit tailored for men would never have. But Ms. Jennings didn’t see any of that. No one ever did. She simply saw lapels and cufflinks and thought man .

“I don’t need to put skin on display to feel feminine,” I told her flatly. “But judging by the fact that you had your dress tailored with a hemline four inches shorter than its stock design is, and had the neckline deepened two extra inches to reveal most of your sagging cleavage, I’d argue you do .”

The white skin Ms. Jennings had exposed now flushed a splotchy red, nearly matching her smudged lipstick. The surrounding women murmured amongst each other. “I—I didn’t have it tailored?—”

“It’s a Malstoni from their spring collection two years ago,” I interjected, bored. “Though you practically massacred it, it’s still recognizable.”

My mother grabbed my arm, fingers crinkling my jacket. “Margot Massey, not another word?—”

“And if you’re going to continue making out with men in the coat closet, check your lipstick when you’re finished, at the very least.” I tapped my lips with a finger.

I wondered if her partner had thought to wipe their own mouth off. A game of guess which married man Ms. Jennings kissed this time might’ve been just what I needed to lighten my mood.

“At least I can find a man to kiss,” Ms. Jennings snapped as she scrubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, stooping to the level of a sixteen-year-old girl once backed into a corner. “I bet you haven’t even kissed a man yet.”

I tilted my head. “Who said I’m into men?”

“ Margot! ” Mother’s scandalized voice screeched loud enough to cut through the piano being played in the center of the room.

This time, I did allow myself to smile a little, if only because of the sound of her distress coupled with the horrified expression on Ms. Jennings’s face.

My gaze caught on the waiter standing a few feet from our little bubble. He looked possibly my age or a little older, maybe twenty-five, and he stood out even further from the careless way he held his drink tray. It tilted haphazardly, not supported correctly with his fingers. It was obvious from the way the two champagne flutes tilted in one direction.

The servers at the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club were trained to maintain masks of indifference for events, and here this man was, staring straight at me as if I’d called out his name.

The waiter must’ve been new, but the club typically put new servers through extensive training before assigning them to serve at events. High-profile guests deserved the best waitstaff. This one slipped through the cracks.

He was also the one, I realized, who’d been stopping by me time and time again to drop off a champagne glass. The one who’d been strangely attentive.

“Oh, Charlotte!” a new voice chimed, joining the already dreadful circle surrounding me like a swarm of relentless insects. I didn’t even try to cover my sigh.

Yvette Conan, another former cheerleader type who’d never grown out of that phase, smiled up at my mother. She was on the board of directors for the country club.

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been bouncing around from group to group looking for you—and got pulled in to talk to everyone, of course!”

Yvette clearly didn’t pick up on the tense atmosphere, but then again, judging by the way she stumbled in her kitten heels, it seemed she’d gotten the good champagne. Dr. Conan, her husband, came up alongside her, his hand curving around her waist lightly enough to not be reprehensible for the event.

The touch was most likely a gesture for show, anyway, given that he had mauve lipstick smudged on the corner of his thin mouth.

“Mary and I were just talking about Annalise’s wedding next month,” Yvette said, pressing her hand to her collarbones. The way she laid her wrist caused her diamond bracelet to catch in the light, just as I knew she’d intended. “You’ve RSVP’d, right? And you heard about the change in destination, right? Because Ms. Nancy’s been… well, on the decline.” She gave a poor little bird expression.

I drew in a slow breath that no one noticed.

“What a nightmare!” one woman in our bubble said. “And to give up Hawaii? Oh, I’m not sure I could!”

Yvette nodded with the woman’s sympathy. “Yes, well, it’s very important to Annalise for Ms. Nancy to be able to come comfortably.”

More like it was important for Annalise to get Nancy’s wedding gift. I stared at the drink tray of the waiter, fingers itching for another flute. Once more, he glanced over, and our eyes locked for a beat before he rushed to look away.

“Of course, I’ve RSVP’d,” my mother answered good- naturedly, mellow to the animated eccentricity. “She booked at our club, after all. How embarrassing would it be if I’d forgotten to respond to the invitation?”

Our club . She made it sound as if she owned the place. She didn’t. While my parents might’ve been on the board of directors, and they might’ve owned the hotel next door, the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club was not hers.

If my mother could’ve heard my thoughts, she’d no doubt have tacked “ yet ” on the end of that sentence.

Yvette’s eyes slid to me, the excitement dimming. “And you, Margot?”

It wasn’t lost on me that her voice had completely changed when directed in my direction. My mother was a welcome presence. She wasn’t a celebrity, but among the high society of Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club’s best—and richest—my mother was quite close. Perhaps everyone clustered around her now because of her prolonged absence while we’d been away to New York, and they never wanted to go back to that. Perhaps it was because when my parents achieved their lofty goals of broadening their hotel chain to the west coast, everyone wanted to be in their good graces to catch any scraps.

Even though I was the daughter of such an influential woman, they treated me as a pariah, a title I’d learned to welcome with open arms. “I’ve already sent my regrets,” I told Yvette.

“Of course, Margot is coming,” my mother immediately replied for me. “The Astors will be in town then for the wedding, of course—you knew the groom was a family friend of theirs, didn’t you?—and it’ll be Margot’s first event she attends with Aaron.”

In response to the expensive name, everyone gasped. I hadn’t thought it possible, but my sour mood reached an all-time low. Aaron Astor . The name alone was similar enough to fingernails on a chalkboard. I didn’t think someone’s name could elicit so much disdain in me, brewing hotly in my chest, but his did so.

“Oh, goodness!” Yvette’s tipsy smile grew wider, though more plastic-like, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a tittering laugh. “I didn’t realize you were still trying to win Aaron’s affections for her, Charlotte. And that’s going… well?”

She sounded surprised. She most likely was surprised. None of them could fathom a man as influential and well-off as Aaron Astor to like someone such as me.

“ Very well,” my mother assured. She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at the drunken Yvette. “He’s expressed his interest many, many times. He’s been patient while she’s been away at college, but has made it clear he’s eager to meet her. So much dedication. Kind of you to be so interested, though, Yvette.”

She turned an ugly shade of pink.

Aaron Astor. I didn’t even know what he looked like. Someday soon, I’d have a face to the name, but for now, I could make him look however I wanted in my head.

Giant forehead. Bucked teeth. Upturned nose. Balding.

Apathy sunk its teeth into me, just as it always did, dousing the derision. You shouldn’t think of ways to insult him , the placating voice in my head mused. Not when you’re more than likely going to marry him .

I never understood how Aaron could be so smitten with me, given that we’d never officially met. My mother had brought me along to a holiday event for travel empires in New York City, though I’d stayed out on the rooftop the entire night, freezing. My black suit had easily disguised me in the cold and shadow, and I thought I’d gotten through without catching anyone’s attention.

Aaron had been present that night, apparently, and despite not having the guts to come up and talk to me—and not even hearing me speak once—he had fallen in love. Perhaps he was more so smitten over the amount of assets I had as an extension of my parents. The only daughter of two millionaire parents who owned an east coast hotel empire was attractive, indeed. Who cared about looks when someone had deep pockets?

The Astors themselves, of course, had money. The rich flocked to the rich.

“We’re anticipating something big when he comes into town,” my mother murmured in a hushed sort of excitement. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Something with a few carats .”

The two women Ms. Jennings brought over all but giggled while Ms. Jennings smirked a little. “How exciting. A wedding and a proposal.”

“Surely he wouldn’t propose at someone else’s wedding.” Yvette’s pink shade turned red as she imagined the possibility. “Surely. You think… you think a proposal is that imminent, Charlotte?”

My mother winked. “You should see the emails he sends Margot. I think it’s coming sooner than later.”

I’d never received any emails. I wondered if it was a lie, or if she and my father had decided not to show me the drivel lover boy wrote up.

While Yvette tried to weasel my mother for more information, Ms. Jennings mimed ever so discreetly to Dr. Conan’s lips. He wiped everywhere but at the mauve smudge. When Ms. Jennings peered around our group to check if anyone noticed, I didn’t bother averting my eyes.

“M-Margot,” Ms. Jennings said quickly, nervously, though everyone else would’ve mistaken it for tension over interacting with me in general. “How do you feel about the engagement?”

Everyone looked to me for my answer.

Marrying Aaron Astor had never been a choice given to me. My mother hadn’t even told me she met him at Christmas until February. She’d gushed over the fact that the elegant Vivienne Astor, Aaron’s mother, had reached out in the new year asking if Charlotte Massey’s dearest daughter was single.

“ He’s the perfect match ,” my mother had said while we were on a video call with my father. “ He’s everything we’ve been waiting for .”

I lifted my chin now. “I think any rich 25-year-old desperate to marry someone he’s never met must be a poor sight to see.”

The conversation stalled in awkward silence. The butterflies all looked at each other as if debating to flutter away to a new flower, one that would actually give them the titillating conversation they were hoping for. My mother just looked like a furious wasp.

“Then again, I should be honored—a man, as rich as Aaron Astor, is interested in me .” I left no room for emotion in my voice as I stared Ms. Jennings down, a challenge.

She broke away first, of course. They always did.

I turned my attention back to the ballroom, watching as the space, thankfully, held signs of winding down as the hour stretched closer to eleven. The catering staff had begun clearing the buffet tables and gathering the dirty dishes. A few still milled about with trays of drinks, but all the small hors d’oeuvres had stopped being served. So close , I thought to myself, glancing at the massive clock on the far end of the room. So close to turning into a pumpkin .

“Margot’s never been interested in dating before,” I heard my mother explain to our little gaggle of big mouths. “And of course, when she starts, she goes for the big one.”

“And here I thought she wasn’t interested in romance in general,” Ms. Jennings replied. “Not even the slightest little crush?”

“Must’ve been boring,” someone muttered.

My mother’s voice was firm. “She’s been very focused on her studies. Theo and I have a dedicated daughter.”

The words made my stomach feel sour. I stood there amidst the nonsense, wondering why they had to bat it back and forth around me. I was no flower.

I looked back to where the waiter stood with his tilting tray, still shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He hadn’t moved since I last glanced over, hadn’t found someone else to serve the remaining drinks to. His shoulders were stiff, and despite his black pants and white shirt, he seemed out of place. His eyes bounced all over the ballroom, ending up on a revolving pivot back in my direction.

He tried to be smooth about it, but it was obvious—he’d still been watching.

It piqued my interest to the point that I could no longer ignore it. Without a word of polite excuse, I stepped away from the group, making my way to the cater waiter.

His eyes widened as I closed in on him, and he took a step backward. It was choppy enough that the champagne glasses swung again, his tray too far from his torso to give it the proper balance. Though he tried, he didn’t have a chance to run before I was upon him, stopping within an inch from his teetering tray.

“Intriguing, am I?” I asked as I swiped up a champagne flute. I kept my back to my mother, but highly doubted she’d march over and pull it from my hands again. Not with her underlings to distract her.

The waiter’s shoulders seemed even stiffer now, and he held the tray with the singular champagne flute between us almost as if a barricade. “I was just looking to see if you needed another drink.”

“You mean my sixth?” I lifted my eyebrows. “It was you who kept me stocked, wasn’t it? Trying to get me drunk?”

He blinked rapidly, dark lashes fluttering. They were quite pretty. “No, I just—wanted to make sure you had what you needed.”

“Not anyone else in this room. Me, specifically.” I didn’t smile, but the expression I offered was close. “Are you trying to get on my good side? That could be tough—I’m not known to have one.”

He looked around helplessly, as if trying to find an escape path, but couldn’t get his feet to move. “You looked lonely. Over there, by yourself. That’s why… I came around a few times.”

Lonely. The word looped around in my head, almost foreign in the context. Lonely, in a room filled with so many people that the air was thick with heat and Chanel No.5? Lonely, when I resented the thought of anyone walking up to me? Lonely, when I refused to even make eye contact with someone? Lonely . For a moment, it didn’t make sense.

Finally , something in me sighed in a sort of revelation. Somebody noticed .

“I prefer my own company over this lot’s,” I returned, taking a sip of the champagne. I wasn’t sure if it was just my tastebuds, but it almost tasted sugary . Almost as if it were sparkling juice.

I looked the waiter over a bit closer. The uniform of the country club for the serving attire was a black turtleneck paired with a white shirt and a black apron tied around their waist. His didn’t quite fit him right, as if he wore shirts two sizes too big. Not name brand; not the standard uniform the country club doled out.

The watch latched to his wrist looked clunky and old, like something a child would dig out from a cereal box—a violation of dress code, since no jewelry or watches were allowed when serving. He almost looked like he was pretending to be on the staff, as if he’d found a tray somewhere and just swiped it up.

That thought only increased my curiosity.

A woman walked past us then with a flute in her hand, and I eyed it. The bubbles in hers were far more of a light golden color, whereas mine seemed almost a burnt amber. Indeed, different. I nearly laughed. He was serving me sparkling juice. Which meant there was only one culprit behind this imposter and his poorly done-up hoax—my mother.

Perhaps I should’ve been more annoyed with the situation, but it more so amused me than anything. It definitely livened up the night as it began to calm down. “It’s very unusual,” I mused, “that you were put on a serving rotation, but don’t seem to know the proper etiquette. Is the country club slacking, or are you somewhere you aren’t supposed to be?”

“I’m supposed to be here,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction as I inched closer to his con. “They—they asked me to join the waitstaff tonight.”

“Who asked?” I pulled out a name who wouldn’t have anything to do with it. “Ms. Jennings?”

The dimwit took the bait. “Yes, I—I think that was her name.”

Again, I nearly smiled. If Ms. Jennings would’ve asked this man to do anything, it would’ve been to accompany her to the coat closet. She hadn’t seen him yet; she surely wouldn’t be making kissing faces with Dr. Conan if that’d been the case. No, the waiter was just her type—young, tall, handsome.

At least I can find a man to kiss , she’d said. I bet you haven’t even kissed a man yet. A small thrill skated through me, and with my free hand, I reached out and smoothed my fingers down the fabric of the waiter’s shirt collar. The cotton was, in fact, well-worn, too soft to the touch, but I allowed my fingertips to linger. “Do you think you could do me a favor?” I asked in a slow, measured voice. “Because I could use your help with something. If you are, in fact, wanting to get on my good side.”

Wariness filled his gaze. “What kind of favor?”

“I just need you to stand there and look pretty.” For him, it shouldn’t be too hard. It wasn’t often I was met with attractive men my age, but this waiter, objectively, was. Not in a way that stirred my pulse—nothing could stir a block of ice, after all—but in a way that made this moment even more perfect. I moved my fingertips from his collar to the top of his shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric. “I’ll give you whatever you ask for in return.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

It was clear that hadn’t been the response he expected. His eyes flashed wide, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “You—you can’t kiss me.”

“Why?” His stuttering was a little endearing. Once more, I looked around the ballroom, noting the number of people remaining. They were tipsy, mostly unreliable. “Do you have a girlfriend? ”

“No, but?—”

“A boyfriend?”

He became even more panicked. “ No .” Then a resolute expression crossed his features. “I—I am an employee of the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club, and it would be wrong… for me to kiss you.”

“You wouldn’t be kissing me. I would be kissing you .”

The waiter swallowed hard. “Miss Margot.”

There it was. A confession, in a way. He knew me, at least by name. It confirmed my suspicions—my mother must’ve hired him. For what, I wasn’t sure, but discovering her spy was a small victory.

It was then that a tiny smile slipped, my lips curving upward, and the waiter’s eyes fell to my mouth. A spark tingled in my stomach, watching him watching my lips, for a reason I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just a quick glance either, but a lingering one, one that prickled my skin.

The waiter seemed to relax by a fraction. He must’ve thought that the longer our conversation went on, the safer he was.

Unfortunately for him, he’d been wrong. He’d learn it the hard way—Margot Massey was not one to talk to, lest she decide to use you for her enjoyment. “This isn’t personal,” I assured him. After taking one last sip of what mostly likely was juice—and swallowing the strange feeling that’d surfaced—I placed my flute back on his teetering tray. I eyed it for a moment, gauging where the weakest spot was.

“But thank you for taking one for the team.”

He almost seemed afraid to ask. “Whose team?”

“Mine. ”

I lifted my arm sharply, as if shaking out my jacket sleeve, and the movement would’ve seemed casual to anyone glancing over, not calculated the way it was. The back of my hand smacked the bottom of the waiter’s tray, and, due to the improper positioning of the way he’d held it, it toppled. The champagne flutes practically flew up before crashing to the ground with a scream, throwing liquid and shattered glass across the marble tiles.

Every head in the room turned toward the two of us, startled by the sound. Even the pianist cut off with a sharp error of the keys. Just Margot , I could practically hear them say, shaking their heads with scorn. She would be at the center of it .

I didn’t look to see if my mother was watching, because I knew she was.

Yes , I thought to them, smiling ever so slightly. Once more, it was a genuine smile, and in the briefest moment of stillness, I saw the waiter’s eyes drop to my lips, noting it. I would be .

I reached out and grabbed ahold of the now pale waiter’s face, drawing him in and pressing my lips to his.